Quelling Ghosts
by GoldenRoya
Summary: Weird weather patterns bring the boys to Carrolton, a normal town that just happens to sprout sinkholes like daisies. Some digging reveals a history of ghosts, murder, and... the fate of a fellow Hunter?
1. The Case

_I is not owning of Supernatural... darn it. *tries to lure the boys with pie*_

_Okay, I've been working on this one for awhile now and it's __finally __in a format where I can start publishing…well, posting, anyway. Please enjoy! And, as always, reviews make me happy. Send some smiles my way? Please? _

* * *

><p>"Not our usual MO," Dean muttered under his breath as he hauled the heavy box out of the trunk.<p>

"Not the usual case," Sam stated bluntly, shutting the lid and taking the other end of the box. The two brothers manhandled the unwieldy container down the slope, short grass made slippery with early morning frost.

The square hole they'd already dug lay open, waiting. It wasn't the first time they'd ever dug a grave, but it was practically unheard of for them to have dug one without a body already at the bottom of it.

"Think it'll work?" Dean asked.

"Here's hoping."

* * *

><p><em>Four days earlier…<em>

"I think I got us our next case," Sam said to Dean, ticking his finger against the newspaper he was holding.

Dean blinked at it, and grinned. "Now you're talking, Sammy. Finally, a case with some decent chicks!"

"Huh?" Sam looked at where his finger had landed. It was some splashy piece about a local sorority's car-washing fundraiser. With pictures. Big ones. And, um, big ones.

"_Underneath_ the pictures, doofus."

"Oh yeah, I would so like to get underneath those." Dean ogled until Sam smacked him lightly with the paper.

"Mind out of the gutter, Dean, this is serious."

"Okay, okay. What have we got?"

"Weird stuff. Weather patterns going glitchy, lightning storms, sinkholes, earth tremors, a drought."

"Could be natural."

"Right… when everywhere else around this particular town has been having record rainfall?"

Dean took the paper and studied it. "Huh. I think you're right, it could be something. Guess we'd better go check it out."

They tossed their newly-cleaned clothes – courtesy of Sam, thank you very much – into their duffels and headed out to the Impala. Sam eyed a suspiciously rustling bulge in his brother's pocket.

"What was the name of that town again, Dean?"

"Carrolton," he answered, promptly.

"Sure you don't need to check the newspaper, just to make sure?"

Dean winced, guiltily.

Sam smirked. _Check_.

* * *

><p>There was nothing really spectacular about Carrolton. It looked like any of the hundreds of small towns they'd stopped in over the years; a few cross-hatched streets opening out onto cornfields, a broad main avenue called, originally enough, Main Street, and which was, to either side of the town, known simply as County Road 12. A couple dozen houses, some neat and trim, most needing a fresh coat of paint or minor repairs. Dean pulled into the town's single gas station. Before he could even get out of the car, an attendant was standing by.<p>

"Just gas, or do ya want the whole works?" he drawled.

Dean looked at the fresh coat of dust gracing the Impala. "Whole works," he decided, and the attendant grinned.

"Yessir!"

Dean rolled his eyes. Ah, youth. So much energy, so much enthusiasm.

Leaving Sam to watch the car, he wandered into the station to peruse the available edibles. A plump, matronly woman looked up at him from behind the counter. "You boys from out of town?" she asked, a quirky smile crossing her face to match the dry humor.

The elder Winchester just laughed. "Just passing through," he answered. "Thought we might stay a day or two, though. You know any motels near here?"

She hooked a thumb over her shoulder. "I don't know about motels, honey, but the bed and breakfast is your best bet there. They'll treat you fair, don't you worry. Tell Moira that Jenny sent you, and she'll throw in extra pastries at breakfast."

"Well, thanks, Jenny, I just might do that." He lounged against the counter, staring out the wide windows. "Weird weather around here," he commented.

The older woman just nodded. "Yes sir, it is that. Though we've mostly been getting used to it - hasn't been whatcha'd call _normal_ weather around for nigh on about ten years or so. Folks is starting to move out." She sighed. "It's a pity, it really is. Carrolton used to be such a bright town. Not big, never busy, but thriving, you know?" Dean nodded, and she continued. "Well, if you boys are going to stay, you really ought to come to church tomorrow morning. Brand-spankin'-new it is, and not over time, either. The old one, well, it's just falling apart, you know? Neglect, that sort of thing. And the new church doubles as a community center, too." She frowned. "Not that you can really _tell _it's a church, from the outside. 'Modern architecture,' they calls it. You ask me, a church really ought to look like a church, but, well, one must move with the times, as they say. You know, I'll just tell the pastor that we'll be seeing a couple of new faces in the pews tomorrow, what do you say, honey?"

Dean blinked, realizing that she was expecting an answer. "Uh... yes, ma'am. That is, uh, we'll try. Uhm... You know, I think your assistant is done out there, what do I owe you?"

She rang up the gas and Dean's few purchases, chattering happily about the things to do and see in the area. He finally interrupted to ask directions to the B&B she'd mentioned. Jenny took it in stride, her hands windmilling as she acted out the directions. "Just up Main Street, take a left on Maple and then a right on Castor. It'll take you a kind of a sharp curve but stick with it, honey, and you'll see Moira's place on your right. It's a big ol' Victorian, you can't miss it. On the historical register, you know; the Huskers - that's Carrolton's founding family - they built the place back in the 1830's." Her voice fell, and she leaned in with the air of one divulging a juicy secret. "It's supposed to be haunted, you know. They say that old Jebediah Husker wanders the house and grounds, searching for his son's bones." Then she laughed. "It's all nonsense, of course, just something that Moira bandies about to pick up tourists. I don't know of a single person in this town that's actually seen old Jebediah's ghost. Oh, the children will tell you they have, but they just like to make each other squeal. Still, it's something to put a chill up the spines of the gullible. Ghost stories..." she sighed happily. "I used to be the best teller of ghost stories in my neighborhood. I could scare the pants off of Davy McLaughlin, and no mistake, heh heh." Her eyes clouded over in happy reminiscence for a moment before she refocused on Dean. "Well, don't let me keep you two boys any longer. I'm sure you've got better things to do than talk with an old woman like me, eh?" She gave him a broad wink before shooing him out the door.

"Bit of a talker, huh, Dean?" Sam grinned as his brother slid behind the wheel of the gassed up, washed, and spit-polished Impala.

Dean refused to take the bait. "I think I got us a place to start, Sammy," he said. "How do you feel about a B&B?"


	2. Research

_Do I own Supernatural? Let's see... *checks closet* *checks cupboard* *checks garage* Nope, it doesn't look like I do. Darn._

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><p>They settled into the bed and breakfast and then headed out to research. Moira was less of a talker than her friend - barely - but she did point them to the cemetery, which was out behind the old church. "Jebediah mostly hangs out there, anyway," she told them. "Not what you'd call an indoor sort of man even in life. Loved the woods, he did. Though he does occasionally make a visit up to the house."<p>

"His full name was Jebediah Husker?" Sam clarified.

"Yes, indeed, it was. This house was supposed to go to his son, stay in the family you know, but he died even before the old man did, and good riddance to him. Though I was ever so grateful to get the place; running a bed and breakfast was my dream all my life, and this place is just perfect for it."

"What was his son's name?"

She frowned. "Roger," she said, darkly. "Roger Husker, and a worse stain on the family name there couldn't have been." A buzzer went off and she yelped, jerked from wherever her dark thoughts were taking her. "Goodness, the pies! You run along now," she said, whisking back into the house.

Dean grinned. "You hear that, Sammy? Pies! Plural! We'll eat good tomorrow morning."

"_Well_, Dean, we'll eat _well_," Sam corrected under his breath. Dean just grinned more broadly.

* * *

><p>The sun was looking like it was considering sinking as they surveyed the graveyard. There was some attempt at upkeep around the place, grass that had been mown in the last couple of weeks, flowers on a grave or two, but for the most part it, looked half abandoned. The church it backed didn't look much better. Dean kicked the back steps. A chunk of half-rotten wood flew off and landed in a clump of weeds.<p>

"Sad days when a town doesn't even honor their dead anymore, isn't it, Sammy?" he stated, sounding uncharacteristically introspective.

Sam just nodded, knowing that his brother was thinking about their father, and all the other people they'd known who had died. He was thinking about them himself. "Come on, Dean," he said. "Let's find Jebediah's grave."

It took them longer than they'd thought. They had more experience than most at locating a specific grave in any given graveyard - not many of them were laid out in order of death, more's the pity - but this one was just... _screwy_. It didn't follow any sort of logic or pattern at all.

Finally, just as the sun was touching toe beneath the horizon, Sam stumbled over it. "Hey, Dean! It's over here."

His brother joined him. "Huh. Well, struck out on that," he said. "Look at the dates. He only died nine years ago. The weather started going nuts a year before his death."

"Yeah," Sam agreed. "But that's not what's interesting. Look next to it."

Dean did. _Roger Husker. Beloved son, Beloved guardian. May We Rest in Peace._

"That's... an odd inscription."

"Notice anything else weird?"

"No dates. Huh. Well, according to Moira, he predeceased his old man. Maybe by a year, do you think?"

Sam cast his brother a sideways glance. "Yeah, maybe. And since when do you know the word 'predeceased'?"

Dean gave him a hurt look. "Hey, I read."

"Yeah, _Hustler._"

"Oh, come on, Sam, I got way more class than that!"

"_Busty Asian Beauties_ isn't exactly the definition of class, Dean."

"Yeah, but way more fun than that legal dictionary you read." He grinned, but then got serious. "Looks like we've got a lead."

"Looks like. Think the town has a library or some sort of historian?"

"Don't all these places? We'll ask Moira, see if she can point us in the right direction." He slapped his head. "Oh, damn."

"What?"

"Tomorrow's Sunday. Church, Sammy," Dean explained. "I doubt anything's gonna be open."

Sam shrugged. "So we'll go to church, talk to people, see if we can get some leads there. People in small towns love to gossip. People in small town churches even more so. And it's obvious there's a lot of gossip about the Huskers. You saw Moira's reaction." Dean didn't look convinced, and Sam rolled his eyes. "Oh, come on. It's a great opportunity and you know it. Besides, it's been ages since either of us went to church. Don't you think it's about time?"

It was the wrong thing to say. "No. No, Sam, I don't. Not after all the shit we've been through, the shit we've seen. I don't think I could sing praises to the big man in the sky knowing what He's allowing to prey on His children down on Earth. Besides, with the weather around here, I'd be risking getting hit by a lightning bolt just standing on the front walk."

Dean stalked away, Sam following behind more slowly, thinking.

* * *

><p>The next day, true to his word, Sam rose early and followed the line of cars to the new church.<p>

Dean watched him go. Normally, he would be sleeping in on a Sunday morning, but today he was restless, unable to get back to sleep. After tossing and turning a few dozen times, he finally gave up and got dressed. He poked around the house a bit, but the big Victorian just wasn't large enough to contain his restless energy. He headed out for a walk.

His steps took him to the old cemetery they'd visited the night before. His wandering feet stilled at last, and he ambled among the headstones. It felt... oddly peaceful, with the rising sun casting a golden glow over the scene, the last wisps of morning fog fading into mist and then dispersing altogether under the patient fingers of the sunbeams. He leaned against a wrought-iron fence that cordoned off one section of family plots, forearms planted firmly between the ornate, decorative spikes. The heat of the morning sun worked on his shoulders, loosening the tension there. He would never admit it, or even think it too loud, but he was grateful that for once, there were no bodies. Gruesome murders just got so... gruesome.

"Nice morning."

Dean turned slowly at the sound of the voice. An old guy - a gardener? He certainly dressed the part - had walked up behind him. The elder Winchester mentally winced - how hadn't he heard him coming? - and cleared his throat. "Sure is. Peaceful."

The gardener leaned against the fence, mimicking Dean's stance. They stood in companionable silence for a bit.

"Of all of God's creations, I think the sunrise is one of His finest," the old man finally said. "Each day new, each day fleeting, but while it lasts, a work of art that man can only hope to gaze at in wonder." He must have noticed Dean's discomfiture, because he gave a sort-of half-smile. "Haven't talked to the good Lord recently, have you, son?"

His younger companion shifted uneasily. "Me and God, well, we sort of have an agreement. He ignores me, I ignore Him."

The half-smile became rueful. "Ah. Well, I don't think God's quite living up to His end of your 'deal.' Doesn't seem to me like He's ignoring you much."

Dean tensed. "How so?"

"You're alive, ain't ya?"

With that, the old man picked up a rake that had been leaning against the fence, making a few sweeps at the few autumn leaves that had decided to fall early. Dean hitched his hip up over the edge of a headstone, watching him. At length, remembering the reason they'd come to this town in the first place, Dean figured he might as well make a start on his research. _This guy's probably been here since Moses. If anyone knows what's going on, it's him._

"You know the Huskers?" he asked, abruptly.

The raking never paused. "'Course I did. Everyone knew the Huskers. Good family, good folk. Misunderstood, some of 'em, but good just the same."

"When did Roger die? There's no date on his grave."

The only sound was the _swish, swish_ of the rake. Dean thought the old guy hadn't heard him when the creaky voice broke the silence. "Ten years ago this Tuesday. Broke his father's heart, it did. He was too young to die like that. Such a crying shame..."

_That _piqued Dean's interest. "Die like how?" He couldn't see the guy's face, if he could only read the guy's face...

"Lynched. He was accused of kidnapping, mutilating, and murdering a girl some couple counties north of here. Her kin got to him before the law did and - well, the sheriff _said _it were 'an accident', let 'em off. Jebediah tried to get his son's body returned, for burial in the family plot, but the girl's kin wouldn't hear of it. Wanted him separated from his family for all time, they said, and the court agreed with 'em. Ol' Jeb died of heart failure soon after, afore he could make good on his plans for grave robbery."

"Sounds like you knew him pretty well."

The old guy waved a dismissive hand. "Everyone around here knows everything about everyone else. Only the deepest-buried secrets is safe, and then only for the man what owns all the shovels. Of course, not all secrets is buried," he said, looking directly into Dean's eyes. "Some secrets is hollow."

"'Hollow'?" Dean queried. A great crashing in the trees made him whip around, startled, his heart settling down only when he realized the source of the noise was a pair of enthusiastic Labrador pups making good an escape from the kennel. He turned back to the man, saying, "What do you mean, 'hollow'?"

But the gardener had already taken his rake and disappeared.

* * *

><p>Sam arrived back at the house a couple of hours later, humming a hymn quietly to himself. Over breakfast, he and Dean compared notes.<p>

Sam had come up with nothing. "'Hush now, young'un,'" he mimicked in a frail voice. "'Such talk isn't for Sunday's.' Yeah, I'll bet."

Dean grinned. "Why not pay her a call tomorrow, Sammy? You and the little old ladies get along so well, I'm sure you could charm the whole story out of her over tea."

"Shut up." Sam threw a roll at his elder brother. Dean caught it and bit off a chunk.

"Mm-mm, de-lish. You know, we should stay at places like this more often. Good home-cooked food, soft beds, none of that stale-motel odor."

"Pricey, hosts asking our business, the potential for a haunting..."

"Speaking of that," Dean sat up, suddenly getting serious. He related his conversation with the old man in the graveyard.

"'Hollow'? What do you think he meant by that?" Sam asked when he was finished.

"Beats me. You're the brains around here, Sammy, what do you think it means?"

Sam took a sip of coffee. "Not sure. Don't know if it has anything to do with our case, actually. We're here to investigate wacky weather, not maybe-maybe-not ghosts."

Dean polished off the last piece of coffee cake, sucking the sticky jelly off of his fingers. "Well, let's hit the town, then, see if we can get anyone else to talk to us. What's our story?"

"Journalists," Sam answered promptly. "Doing a piece about life in small-town America."

Dean groaned. "That the story you already spread around?"

"Yeah, why?"

"You'll see..."

* * *

><p>"...are tanking. I honestly don't know what I'm going to do next year if I don't get at least six cents more per bushel - won't be able to afford to plant, and my credit's stretched to the limit as it is..."<p>

_Oh,_ thought Sam. _That's why._

He listened for another five minutes, notebook open, jotting the occasional note down, before his boredom quotient reached its limit. "Thanks, Mr. Nelson," he said, shaking the old farmer's hand. "I sure hope you get the price you need." He escaped into a park, where he was corralled by a couple of kids, nine or ten years old, by the look of them.

One bright-looking boy caught his sleeve. "Hey, Mister! My mom says you're writing a story about Carrolton."

"Can we be in it? Please?" asked a blonde-haired girl.

"Don't be stupid," answered the boy, shoving her shoulder. "He won't put you in just 'cuz you ask. You gotta do something cool. Like me - Hey, Mister, you wanna see me do a three-sixty on my skateboard? That's cool enough to get me in the story, right?"

The girl gave him a withering glare. "He doesn't want to watch you skateboard, Andy, that's boring."

"Actually," Sam broke in before an argument could really erupt, "I'm interested in ghost stories. You kids know any interesting ones? Maybe from around here? Every town has their own ghosts."

Andy waved a dismissive hand. "Yeah, we got one, but he's _boring_."

"He never _does_ anything. He's not scary or _nothing_," the girl put in.

"What does he do?" Sam asked.

The kids shuffled and the girl shrugged. "Nothing much. Hangs around the cemetery, mostly."

"Sometimes he's up by the house," suggested Andy.

"Whereabouts?"

"Lotta times he's by the tree in the backyard. Dad says it's because that's where his son used to swing, when he was our age."

"I don't swing!" protested the girl. "I'm too old for that."

"Yeah, you swing. Little Baby Laurie swings like a little kid!"

"I do not!"

"Do too!"

"Do not!"

"Do -"

"Anything else the old ghost does?" Sam interrupted, wishing he'd stayed back at the B&B.

They stopped arguing in the face of an adult presence. "Naw, not really."

"He hangs around by the storm cellar occasionally. But that's about it. Nothing, see? He's the most boring ghost I've ever heard of. He didn't even murder nobody! He doesn't do anything cool."

"Be grateful for that," Sam told them, only to be met by skeptical looks from the two kids. He tried another tactic. "Say, is there any way I could speak with your parents?" he asked.

The girl shrugged. "You talked to my folks already at church," she said. Sam turned to look at the boy, but Andy shook his head.

"M' mom doesn't like strangers much," he said. "She'd get real mad if she knew I was talkin' to you."

"What about your dad?"

He shrugged, seeming to turtle in on himself, looking distinctly uncomfortable. "He died before I was born. Mama says he was a good man, but she won't tell me about him."

Sam was about to ask more when Laurie abruptly turned away. "Come on," she told her playmate. "It's getting dark; we'd better get in."

Sam looked around. The bright afternoon of a few minutes ago was rapidly approaching the green sort of twilight that heralds a massive storm.

"Hey, Mister!" It was Andy. "You'd better get inside, fast."

"Why?"

The question earned him a look of disdain. "It's gonna storm, stupid. You don't get in, you get blown away. Coupla tourists got killed last year cuz they were trying to take pictures."

"Oh," said Sam. "Thanks." He headed off towards the B&B.

"Hey, Mister!" the kid called again. "Watch out for sinkholes!"

"What?"

"They open up real fast 'round here, 'specially durin' snap storms. The ground starts movin' on ya, get outta there fast!"

"Thanks!" Sam called back, but the kid was already inside, the door slamming shut in the wind that suddenly picked up.


	3. Aha!

_A bit of a slower chapter, but appropriate for Act 3. And before anyone asks, no, I don't know of any actual mythological Guardians - the idea smacked me over the head while reading Terry Pratchett's _Small Gods. _I thought, 'Hey, what a great idea! I'll have to steal that sometime.' Well, I didn't lift it wholesale, but enough of the idea stuck around that I thought I ought to give credit where credit is due. __Needless to say, I don't own Supernatural, and if I owned Terry Pratchett's works, I wouldn't need to write fanfiction, now, would I?_

_To answer a couple of questions posed in reviews: Carrolton is indeed in the US; in fact, the geography is loosly based off of Fountain, Minnesota, a small town billed as the "Sinkhole Capital of the World." So if you're looking for a region to place it in, think southern Minnesota through about the top half of Iowa and you'll be pretty accurate.  
>Thanks for the reviews, Somilge and AngelAdept! <em>

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><p>Dean looked up from the book he was perusing when Sam stumbled wearily into the room. "Have any luck?" he asked.<p>

Sam stripped off his muddied pants and dropped his filthy jacket in a pile by the door. "With figuring out this case? Not really. With nearly getting killed? Yeah. I need a shower."

"What happened to you?"

Sam's voice sounded hollow as it echoed back through the closed bathroom door. "Just off-hand, I'd say something's got _something_ pretty pissed - you ever heard of anything that can control nature like that?" The pattering sounds of the shower being turned on permeated the room.

"Indian spirits," Dean answered, promptly. "Really pissed-off Indian spirits. And before you ask, no, there's no documented Native American settlements anywhere near Carrolton, past or present."

"Leaves _un_documented sites, then. Any ghosts in the area?"

"Besides the by-all-accounts-boring haunting of Jebediah Husker? Nothing. Up until this crazy weather started, there's nothing within forty miles of here that would have gotten our attention at all."

"Not so sure it's just the weather, Dean," Sam said.

"How so?"

"I nearly got caught in a sinkhole. And according to these kids I met, it's a pretty common thing."

"Re-ally."

"Yeah, really. Heard of anything like that?"

But Dean wasn't listening. He picked up his phone and punched a number. "Hello, Bobby?"

The voice that greeted him on the other end was warm.

"You boys stuck on a problem _again?_"

Or not.

"Yeah." Dean was undeterred. "We were wondering if you've got any insights into this case we're on." He described the weather and various natural phenomena, aided by occasional inputs from Sam, who had finished his shower and was now toweling off.

Bobby was vaguely impressed. "Sounds like you've got yourselves a Guardian."

"A Guardian."

"Yep."

"An actual Guardian."

"Uh-huh."

"I thought those were just fairy-tales!"

There was the sense of a head being shaken in exasperation. "Since when are fairy-tales not real, boy?"

"Alright, so, what's the lore say?"

There was a creaking groan as Bobby sat down in his old desk chair and started flipping through pages. "Essentially, a Guardian is an elemental spirit - neither angel nor demon, not good or evil - that inhabits part of the land. Keep the Guardian happy, she blesses the land, makes it fruitful, rain in season, yaddayaddayadda."

"So, make her angry and you get storms and earthquakes?" Dean's mouth quirked. "LA's got a doozy of a problem then."

Sam rolled his eyes. Bobby's voice was exasperated. "LA's got a fault line, you idjit. Now, you want my help or not?" Dean apologized and Bobby continued. "Sounds like you've got a royally pissed-off Guardian on your hands. Only thing you can do to settle things down over there is find out what pissed her off in the first place and do your best to appease her."

"Appease how?"

"_I_ don't know, boy! Just appease her!"

"And if we can't?"

"Then people had better move out of the region. Guardians have a long memory, and they don't settle down easy."

"Couldn't we just kill it?"

In the silence on the other end, you could have heard a pin drop. "...kill it? _Kill_ a _Guardian?_"

Dean tried to backpedal. "Uh... bad idea, I take it?"

Yes. Yes it was.

"Are you _nuts?_" Bobby exploded. "You know what would happen if you killed a Guardian? You familiar with Chernobyl? Fortunately, the destruction of the nuclear reactor was _all_ that happened and the civilians were able to blame it all on a power surge. You kill a Guardian in the middle of America and we're looking at full-scale nuclear _war_."

"Okay, okay, we get it. No killing. Appeasing, definitely. So... any idea how we go about finding out how to appease her?"

Bobby sighed. "I'll have to look into it. You boys do what you do, I'll call you when I get some answers."

Dean smiled. "Thanks, Bobby. We owe you."

"I'll add it to my list."

* * *

><p>Sam dragged his brother to the town's tiny library the next day. The librarian was unusually helpful, hanging around, pointing out all the books that could possibly relate to the history of the town... bumping into Sam a few more times than necessary.<p>

As the boys settled in with the books and microfilm they'd managed to dig up, Dean winked at his brother. "That is a _nice _looking girl, Sam. Hot. What's her name again?"

"Marian."

"You're kidding."

Sam glowered. "Just start reading, Dean."

The two boys poured over the texts, occasionally pointing out some salient point to one another. But nothing really jumped up and shouted, 'Hello, this is the answer!' _This_ is why the Guardian is royally pissed!

Though they did learn a bit more about Roger Husker.

"Dude, look at this. He was only twenty-six when he died."

"His father's only son. Must've broken his heart."

"Enough to do some major bad hoodoo, d'you think?"

Sam shook his head. "No. Look here - Jebediah was Carrolton's preacher for twenty years. No way a man of the cloth goes for black magic."

Dean disagreed. "It's been done before, Sam."

Sam fixed his brother with a baleful look. "You're seriously suggesting that a lifelong preacher could just stumble into bad enough juju to screw with a Guardian _this_ bad?" He cocked his thumb out the window, where fist-sized hail was currently battering the town to a mushy pulp.

Thanking his lucky stars that Moira had offered the shed for the Impala's protection, Dean turned back to leafing through ancient copies of the town's newspaper, _The Dahly News_, printed, aptly enough, by editor Jim Dahly.

Shutting his book with a sigh, Sam reached over and snagged half the pile of papers, leafing through decades-old newsprint. "Huh," he muttered.

"What?"

"You know this isn't the first time this area's gotten wacky weather? Seems to have started... eighty years ago. There was a few years of weirdness, then it suddenly stopped. And again fifty years ago, only the weirdness was limited to about a month."

"So no pattern in the timelines."

"Doesn't seem so."

"Huh."

The pair went back to their individual reading. Dean eventually gave up on the paper, rubbing his eyes. "'S no use, Sammy," he said. "Dude was squeaky clean. No parking tickets, even."

"You so sure about that?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "There's a section in here for 'Mayhaps and Miscreants.' Every person cited for any sort of violation shows up in there. Yeah, Ol' Rog' was clean as a whistle."

"Except for the whole raping and murdering bit."

"Mm," commented Dean, "No raping involved. Just mutilation."

"And that's _better?_"

"From our point of view. We get tons of mutilations, but when's the last time we got a rape? That's pretty much human-on-human territory."

"Glad there's _something_ we don't deal with," Sam muttered. "So what's the scoop on Roger?"

"Graduated from high school, top honors, then went off to college. His grandfather died when he was one semester away from graduating there and he came back, doesn't say why. Stuck around here from that day until the day of his death; turned into a real recluse."

"A recluse at age twenty-six?" Sam rubbed his neck. "Rough on him. He and the old man must have been close."

Dean continued. "Then out of the blue, he gets lynched in Suffolk for murdering a sixteen year old girl. It's an open-and-shut case - they caught him standing over her body with a stick in his hand her blood on his clothes. Never found the murder weapon, but he was dead by then - the girl's father and older brother hung him as soon as they found him."

"And they got off scott-free?"

"Seems so."

"Huh."

They went back to perusing the newspapers, but gleaned nothing more from the fragile newsprint. Finally, the two boys decided to call it a day and packed up. Marian thanked them for coming, slipping a folded-up sheet of paper into Sam's hand. Dean grinned as his brother unfolded it to reveal seven digits and Marian's name, with the 'i' dotted with a little heart. He smiled at her as they exited. Dean glanced back to see her fanning herself a bit, her cheeks flushed and eyes bright.

He nudged Sam in the ribs. "Quite the ladies man, aren't you?" he teased.

Sam ignored him.

* * *

><p>Dodging the remains of the hailstones littered across the roadways, the brothers were debating their next move when they came within view of the B&amp;B. A man was standing by the massive cottonwood tree, just staring at the trunk. Sam's foot caught a pebble, sending it skittering across the roadway, and the man turned. He was far enough away that they couldn't make out his features, only the broad-brimmed hat he wore over a long duster. "Hey," Sam called. "Can we help you?"<p>

The figure didn't reply, merely shuffling behind the tree. He didn't reappear.

The two brothers looked at one another, lengthening their strides until they reached the tree. But the figure was gone, and there was no place he could have hidden where the boys wouldn't have seen him leaving.

"Think that was Jebediah?" Sam asked, but Dean wasn't paying attention. He had gone back around the front of the tree to where the ghost - if it was him - had been staring.

It had been years since the elder Winchester had climbed a tree, and he was pleased to note that he still had the knack of it. He perched in a sort of natural seat made by the splitting off of two separate branches and reached around to a cleft in the trunk. It was a bit of a squeeze, but he managed it, and was rewarded with a leather-wrapped book for his pains.

He dropped down beside his brother. "I think he was looking at this," he said, showing off his prize.

"Where'd you get that?" Sam asked.

Dean pointed upwards. "There's a bit of a hollow up there - you'd never see it from the ground, makes an ideal hiding spot."

Sam's eyebrows quirked. "A 'hollow'?" he repeated. "Think that might be what your gardener-friend was talking about?"

Already several pages into the book, Dean just grunted. "Maybe."

Several seconds passed.

"Uh, Dean? You gonna share?"

Silence.

"Dean?"

Nothing.

"Oh-kay, uh... I'll just meet you inside, then." Sam turned on his heel and disappeared through the elaborate front door of the house. Dean, engrossed in reading, didn't notice. He settled back against the trunk of the tree, back pressed to a natural curve between two roots. The old paper crackled as he turned another page, its soft noise joining the ambient sounds of wind, leaves, and migrating birds overhead.

* * *

><p>Dean meandered in some time later, his finger tucked between pages and an odd expression on his face. Sam, somewhat disgruntled, looked up from his computer. "So...?" he led.<p>

Dean perched on an antique desk, one leg dangling, the car keys in his back pocket digging into the wood. "Bobby was right. Again," he said, without preamble. "It's a Guardian. Well, he calls it the Lady Protector, but it comes down to the same thing."

"He who? Start from the beginning, Dean, not the middle."

"Roger Husker ring any bells?"

Sam set his laptop on the cut-glass top of the table beside the overstuffed leather chair he was sitting in and leaned forward. "You found his journal?"

"Better than that." Dean was enjoying dragging this out.

Sam was not. "Dean..."

His brother grinned. "It's his Hunting journal."

The slight emphasis on _Hunting_ made Sam's eyebrows fly north. "Hunting? As in, our kind of Hunting? He was a Hunter?"

Dean settled himself more comfortably on a wickerwork chair across from his brother. "Sort of. A little. Well...not really."

"Unpack, Dean."

Dean sighed. "So, family history as the kid laid it out: A branch of the Husker family founded Carrolton in the 1830's. The family farm got passed down father to son for the next hundred years or so, but then, about eighty years ago, the primary line died out - no sons."

"When that freaky weather started for the first time."

"First time on record, yeah. There was some fighting over the land for a bit among the nephews and sons-in-law, a couple of years of court cases, but eventually the dude's brother took possession of the land and everything settled down.

"For a time, anyway. Thirty years later _that_ guy died without kids and the weird weather bit started up again. That's when Hezekiah Husker - member of a completely different branch of the family, but related through the male line - inherited out of the blue. Takes him a month to get wherever he came from to here, but as soon as he arrived, nature settled down again."

Dean took a breath, but Sam looked less than impressed. "So that has what to do with us?"

"Turns out, the first Husker had made a binding compact with the so-called Lady Protector."

"The Guardian."

"Yeah, her."

"And by 'binding compact,' you mean...?"

Dean actually blushed. "Ol' Rog' got a little steamy with his descriptions. Apparently she fell in love with the first Husker to show up on her land and the little romance got passed down through the generations. The Lady throws a bit of a hissy fit whenever her lovers leave her."

"So this ten-year hiatus is really putting a dent in her love-life."

"Yup."

Sam knew his brother too well to not know when he was holding out on him. "There's more to it than that," he accused, and Dean grinned.

"Yup. Hezekiah - that's Roger's grandfather - was the Lady's consort for fifty years. As a preacher, his son, Jebediah, had pledged his life to God and the Christian faith, and he wasn't going to go 'cavorting with a pagan deity' - Roger's words, not mine," he said to Sam's upraised brow. "The old man apparently never even broached the subject with his son. His grandson, on the other hand..."

"So that's why Roger rushed back from school," Sam mused.

"Yeah, and why he never went anywhere after coming back here. He couldn't."

"Doesn't explain why you called that diary a Hunting journal."

Dean evaded the direct answer. "Roger saw things, things that his mom would say didn't exist and his dad would call demonic. It was Hezekiah that told him what he was seeing was monsters, and introduced him to the Lady. The Lady taught him how to hunt the things down, how to kill them, all to protect her land and keep it clean. When he graduated high school, he went off to college, to learn better land husbandry." He snorted. "Only I doubt his professors thought he meant it quite so literally. Anyhow, when Hezekiah died, Roger came back and took up Hunting again, mostly in Carrolton County, though sometimes when he was hard on the scent of something, he'd go off the reservation, so to speak."

"So he must've been Hunting something the night he was killed," Sam mused. "Wouldn't be the first time a Hunter's been blamed for the stuff a monster does."

Dean snorted. "Don't we know it."

"So how does that help us with the Guardian?" Sam queried aloud. He reached out one hand and beckoned with it, and Dean obediently handed the journal over. Sam immediately started flipping through, scanning the densely-packed text.

"I dunno, but you know what the next step is." The elder Winchester stood up with a grunt that almost sounded like a groan, his vertebra snapping back into place one by one. "Time to find Roger."

Sam rubbed the back of his neck. "Goody. Another graveyard."


	4. The Problem with 'Goody'

_And it's the final chapter! Thanks to everyone for reading._

* * *

><p>"See, this is what happens when you say, 'goody,'" Dean complained some time later, crouched for protection behind a broad marble headstone. He chanced a glance over at his brother, nearly hidden by the deep midnight shadows engulfing the tree trunk where Sam was similarly sheltered. The darkness shrouded the graveyard, making it impossible to see the creature they'd stirred up.<p>

"So you've said," Sam replied, sticking his head out and pulling it back swiftly as a spray of black acid shot past. The trunk sizzled where the liquid struck. "At least we know what Roger was Hunting when he died."

Dean hefted his shovel, wishing they'd known that Roger had sealed the great serpent deity into his own flesh just before he'd died, keeping the thing trapped as long as his coffin was kept closed. Dean was just grateful that the thing had been disoriented by the flashlights; if it had been able to aim properly, he and Sam would have been toast in those first few moments, furiously scrabbling out of the grave. His gun was still there, barrel glinting in the moonlight, frustratingly out of reach. "Any ideas, Sammy?"

A pregnant pause, then, "Yeah. Distract it, will ya?"

Ho boy. Dean trusted his brother, he really did, but damn it, Sam had better pull through. He tightened his grip on the long wooden handle of his shovel, took a deep breath, and charged.

"Yaaaaaaahhhh!"

Dodging acid sprays, he leapt into the air. He rolled as he hit the ground, scooping up his sawed-off shotgun as he went. He came up already aiming, blowing rock salt at the creature. It hissed, retreated, but then came back, head darting forward. Dean was forced to dodge for cover, sheltering behind yet another headstone as acid squirted by overhead. "It's distracted, Sammy!" he yelled. "If you're gonna do something, now would be a great time!"

Fire flared in the darkness. The creature, rather than retreat from the light, was drawn to it, its great, scaly head cocking to one side as it watched the flickering flames dance on the end of the makeshift torch, one end thrust deep into the ground. The serpent slid forward, into the nimbus of light. With a fierce scream of defiance, Sam attacked it, driving a stake up underneath its scales and into its heart. The thing shrieked an agonized cry and dissolved in a halo of sparks.

Dean emerged from his shelter, cautiously. "What'd you do?" he asked.

Sam was panting. "I can't believe that worked," he huffed.

"Sammy..." Dean warned, and his brother assayed a blitzed grin.

"Just kidding. Mostly. Holly," he pointed at the tree he'd been sheltering behind. "Roger's last entry said he was going after the monster with a silver knife and a holly stake. They found him with a stick in his hand, but no knife - I figured that he'd gotten the knife into the serpent but missed with the holly, so..."

"So you took a chance and nearly got yourself killed."

"And this is new to us how?"

Dean grunted. "Good point. Well. Let's get ol' Rog' back home. Maybe having him back on her land will make his Lady relent a bit on the thunderstorms."

"Maybe." Sam leapt down into the grave and started busily winding a sheet and ropes around the desiccated skeleton, tossing up the ends to his brother before clambering out and helping to raise the body of the last Husker son from his earthly hiding place.

* * *

><p><em>Now<em>

Sam tamped the last of the earth into place on the grave. The headstone seemed to glint a little brighter in the early morning light, gold sunbeams reflecting off the polished marble. The brothers shifted uncomfortably, certain that there was some ceremony that ought to be done, but unsure what it might be.

A man with a rake came up to them, and Dean recognized the gardener from before. The boys shifted uneasily, but he just leaned on the end of the long-handled tool, staring at the mound of earth. After a long moment, he nodded in satisfaction. "That was good of you boys," he said at last. "Roger deserved to come home." And he bowed his head and began to speak a prayer for the dead over the new grave. The boys followed suit, gravely. At some point during the prayer, they were joined by a pretty young woman, who also bowed her head in respect.

The prayer done, the gardener looked up at the newest arrival. "Alvara. I thought you would be here."

She nodded at the grave. "I'm glad he's home, Jebediah."

Dean blinked at the pair. "'Jebediah'?" he echoed. He glanced downwards and jumped back with a yelp. The man had no shadow.

The 'gardner' smiled, sadness echoing around his eyes. "Didn't think ghosts could walk during the day, did you, Dean?" he asked ruefully, then answered his own question. "Mostly no. But a Husker, on Alvara's ground? Yes. It's a special dispensation."

Sam looked at the woman. In the morning light, she had an almost ageless quality hanging about her, an indefinable aura of power. "Alvara..." he mused. "Germanic; means _Noble Guardian_. So you're Roger's Lady."

Alvara smiled a little half smile, and shrugged with one shoulder. "I have many names," she hedged. "Jebediah? You should rest now," she told the ghost. "My Roger is home again, and you have no need to keep wandering above ground."

Jebediah was starting to fray around the edges, mist tendrils peeling off in the rays of the morning sun. "Thank you boys," he said to the Winchesters. "You've no idea how much this means to me." He glanced sideways at Alvara. "To us," he amended. They nodded, and he turned his eyes fully on the Guardian. "My Lady? There is one last thing. The church..." Their eyes drifted sideways to the decaying building, and Alvara nodded.

"It shall be restored, Jebediah. I promise you." The ghost nodded his thanks, and then drifted away, incorporeal and at rest.

She was about to walk away when Sam asked the question that was burning in his mind. "That's it? I thought your pact was with the Husker family for a _living_ Husker's son?" Dean glared at his brother, but Sam didn't notice.

Alvara nodded slowly. "Yes, that is so. And so it is. My anger is appeased, with Roger's body back on my land and his spirit at rest. And the covenant continues, though my son is too young to know it yet."

Sam blinked. "Son?" But Alvara had left them, heading across to the parking lot to a waiting Andy, who laughed and ran to hug his mother. The younger Winchester tilted his head. He looked rather a lot like Jebediah, from a certain angle.

Dean saw it, too. "I think she didn't want to chance losing the Husker line for good," he mused. "Either that, or she fell for Roger harder than we thought."

* * *

><p>"Sounds like she's retiring, boys," said Bobby. They'd called him once they were on the road, the Impala collecting a fine coating of dust as they drove past acres of cornfields. "Guardians only ever have kids once they're planning on passing on. Your Andy's the next in line for the Guardianship of Carrolton."<p>

"So it'll be alright then?" Dean confirmed, and Bobby sighed. "Yeah, it'll be alright. Now get back here; I've got a couple of new leads for ya and I think you'll like 'em."

"Roger that," the elder Winchester replied, and snapped his phone shut. He took the next left, heading for the highway, and turned up the volume on the stereo.

They blasted out of Carrolton County on the wings of an electric guitar.

* * *

><p>Alvara watched them go, a smile on her lips as she taught Andy how to manipulate the little dust devils that sprang up along the side of the road. The boy was a natural, she thought, and she'd chosen his father well. A few more years, and the land of her keeping would take her in, as it had generations of Guardians before her. A persistent itch in the back of her mind settled, now that Roger was back on her land and within her bounds. <em>Soon, my love. Soon enough, we'll be together forever.<em>

It was a good promise, and she sent a wave of thanks after the Winchester sons. They had given her back her heart, and if they ever came back through her land, she would repay them with all the rewards she could give.

Then she put them from her mind and turned back to her son, grinning as she watched him play.


End file.
